the fortnight
by mildetryth
Summary: What happened in the book, the two weeks Christine spent with Erik? Only Leroux. Rating can change.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** I don't owe anything (I'm very sorry to disappoint you all).

**Summary:** I'm going to try to describe what in my opinion happened the two weeks Christine spent with Erik in the book.

**Warning:** this isn't EC! EC is only at the end of every story, and my story happens in the middle; it's still RC, but if you wish, you can of course imagine it's going to be EC. Thank you for your attention.

* * *

Christine closed her eyes so she couldn't see Erik's horribly distorted face anymore, but she still could feel his bony fingers holding her dress and passionate kiss it while he muttered her name. "Christine… Christine…"

Somehow she managed to open her eyes again and stared over the head which only had some brown curls left, to the organ, on which she saw, with the red marks, _Don Juan Triumphant_. She wished she was far away. She felt nothing of the glory and passion anymore she had felt when they had sung _Othello_ together; she didn't feel the fear and horror of only minutes ago when she had removed his mask; she only felt sick and tired.

"Erik," she whispered, feeling strangely light in the head. "Erik… I… I think I'm going to… to faint…"

He immediately got up and she could look at him without flinching, because of the black spots that kept appearing before her eyes. "Yes… Yes, you look terribly pale… my dear." He said the last words strange, like it was something foreign to his tongue. "Maybe you should lie down."

He laid his horrible dead hands around her waist to support her and she leant heavily on him. He guided her through rooms she thought she recognised, and others she was sure she had never seen before. But she didn't care where he led her, as long as she could lean on him. Her weary feet kept walking and walking and she was sure that she couldn't stop anymore, even if they would ever arrive at wherever they were going. She felt whole the time his yellow eyes on her, drinking in every feature, with a frightening longing in them, but she felt too sick to care.

And then his arms had disappeared. Christine blinked and saw she was in the Louis-Philippe room. "Will you be alright, Christine?" he whispered.

Somehow she nodded and smiled. "I'll be alright, Erik. I… I just want to sleep." He nodded also, reached out his death-hand and touched one of her curls. She smelled the corpse-like smell which hung around him. The yellow eyes glowed.

And then he was gone. She still stood in the middle of the room, staring at the door through which he should have gone. She could find it easily, not like last time, when she only could get in the bathroom. She fiddled with her corset for what seemed hours. When she finally managed to get it off, she was so tired she didn't care for the rest of the dress, but just laid herself on the bed.

A welcome darkness started to surround her, caressed her and slowly swayed her asleep.

* * *

So, what do you think? Everybody who reviews, will get some chocolat! Next chapter will be up as soon as I have 1 review! 


	2. Day 1: Morning

**Disclaimer:** I only own... well, my crazy concoctions.

**Author's note:** wow! I got a lot of reviews! But I too had a lot of homework, sooo...) Oh, yeah, **Elentir**... I ...eh... ate the chocolate out of frustration (see the homework part)!

* * *

When Christine woke up, she couldn't understand why the bed was so big, or everything so dark, or why she couldn't hear the soft breathing of the girls she shared the dormitory with. Then she realised she didn't lie in her dormitory, but in the Louis-Philippe room in the house at the lake.

Everything that had happened the evening before came back in her mind with such a force, that it was like someone hit her on the head with a hammer. She remembered her Angel's soft voice, and then remembered, with a cold chill running down her spine, that there was no Angel, only a man, a man who was hardly a man, called Erik…

Oh, how stupid she had been! Believing he was an Angel! Oh, it had been so easy for him to control her! No wonder he had forbidden her to meet any men; he had wanted her for himself!

Was he a lunatic? Surely he was! No sane man would deceive a girl by acting like he was an Angel! And his bed, which was actually a coffin, the black room he slept in, the way he had acted towards her when she had removed his mask… she recalled the words he had spoken to her then, with an ease that frightened her. She was sure they would never go out of her mind again.

He had said she had to stay forever with him, that she would never get out of here again… She started breathing deeply, trying to calm herself. She couldn't let herself go like this… She looked around in the dark room, looking for a window she could open, so she could get some fresh air, and then realised there wasn't a window, because she was under the cellars of the Opera.

She pulled up her knees, forced her forehead against them and pushed her both hands in her hair, straining to keep the tears away. What would become of her, imprisoned with a lunatic? He could murder her and nobody would ever know what had happened to her…

No, he wouldn't hurt her. He had said he loved her, after all, and even when she had removed his mask, he had only hurt himself… She shivered when she thought back of her nails cutting in his flesh and then calmed down. He wouldn't hurt her.

When she was at ease about that, she started to think of mamma Valerius. Tears immediately sprung back in her eyes. What would become of her dear old friend? Christine took care of her. There was of course the servant-girl, but mamma Valerius was so weak, every shock could be fatal to her…

She pushed her face even harder against her knees and cried.

When she felt a little bit better, she thought of ways to get out of the house. There _had_ to be a way… but probably only Erik knew. No matter how she turned, she would have to convince him to let her go. But how?

Something Little Meg, one of the ballet rats, had told her once shot back through her mind. _Touch men on their weak spots,_ the girl had said with a wink. Then she had found that highly amusing, for Meg Giry had never of her life had a boyfriend because her mother, Mme. Giry, guarded her daughter like she was a nun.

But now the advice was very useful. No matter how he looked, Erik was a man, with weak spots. And she knew his weak spot.

She was.

* * *

"Christine?" Christine whirled around, becoming deadly pale.

When she saw it was Erik, and observed the disappointment in his eyes by her fear, she quickly smiled. "Erik! You frightened me. I hadn't heard you coming." He was wearing his mask again.

He seemed to be satisfied with her explanation, and the disappointment was replaced by the well-known eager, longing look. "Are you hungry?"

"Yes, thank you." She smiled sweetly to him and, while he turned around to lead her to the dining room, pushed away the sickening feeling the thought of what was beneath the mask away. Was she an actress or wasn't she?

* * *

"Is there something wrong, my dear?" Erik asked, eying her from the other side of the table. Just like the night before, he didn't eat anything. For that he would have to put of his mask and he clearly didn't want to frighten her again. "You look worried." She shook her head, and then hesitantly nodded. It probably wasn't wise to tell him, but he was so nice... "What's the matter?" Before she knew it, he had stood up and kneeled next to her.

"She bit upon her lower lip. "Erik… I'm- I'm worried about mamma Valerius. I- she's so weak, and- and if I don't come home…" No! She shouldn't have said that. Now he knew she wanted to go, even if it was for someone else, but he would never let her go. She had lost that opportunity, the only one to get ever out of here. Why couldn't she have waited? But it was too late to take her words back, so she just looked imploringly. "I- I don't have to go…" she added when he was silent. "I- I could leave a message or something…"

He kept the silence until it was almost unbearable. He finally said reluctantly: "You could write her a letter."

"Yes," she said relieved. "Yes! I'll do that."

"And then… then you'll be completely free. Yes, you better write her something," he whispered. "Then there's nothing to keep you away anymore. Then you really can get used to this life… Then you can learn to be mine…" He nodded, more to himself than to her. "I'll take care it's delivered." He was silent again. "Meanwhile, you could perhaps write a letter to Messieurs Moncharmin and Richard, so they won't be worried." His contempt for them was clearly audible in his voice.

She nodded. "Thank you." Her eyes shone. She would be able to write to mamma Valerius!

"There's stationery in your room. You may go now." He stood up. She felt so happy she would have embraced him if she hadn't reminded herself that without him, she wouldn't even have to write her guardian and if she wasn't so afraid of his touch.

* * *

I expect a lot of reviews, even if I don't give any chocolate... Please? (falls on her knees) Pleeeeaaaaassssseeee?

"Since first I saw your face, this music has been singing to me from you--and love triumphant! Yet listen- there sounds an ominious undercurrent of warning!" Erik (Lon Chagney Sr.), The Phantom of the Opera (1925); the organ-scene, just before Christine (Mary Philbin) snatches away his mask.


	3. Day 1: Noon and Night

And here we are again, ladies and gentlemen! Yes, the wonderful Leroux show is here again with: 9 reviews already (you don't know how happy I am!). Who will be The Tenth Reviewer? And here is the usual:

**Disclaimer:** don't own a thing.

**Author's note:** Love those reviews! **Mika**, like you see I'm doing the best I can! **Cupid&Psyche4ever**, I actually love ALW, but I detest bad fics about it. Thank you all for reviewing! And, eh, made a mistake last chapter, Christine lived with mamma Valerius, that dormitory should be replaced by the soft snoring of mamma Valerius' cat…

P.S. I n this story Christine is blonde, because I believe she is in the book.

* * *

Christine pushed some curls out of her eyes and reread the finally finished letter. She had worked on it for two hours, after writing the short note to the managers, Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin.

_Dear mamma Valerius,_

_I hope you are alright and in good health. _

_Please do not worry about me, for I'm fine. Do you remember my vocal teacher we talked about? I will be living with him now. _

_My dear friend, it can be you never see me again; all will depend on my teacher. Do not grief over me; I assure you I'm perfectly happy. The servant-girl will take care of you. I miss you and love you._

_Your little friend,_

_Christine Daaé_

It was a terrible letter, too short and full of lies. But she couldn't think of anything else to write. Certainly not the truth. She wasn't sure Erik wouldn't read the letter, and it would be too much for the poor woman. She sighed and took up the letter to the managers.

_Messieurs,_

_Because of the strain of the last weeks I will take a holiday, for health reasons. I do not know how long this holiday will continue._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Christine Daaé_

It had taken five minutes to write that down. She stood up and looked around, yawning. Her dress stuck onto her legs and her hands were slightly sweaty. She had been sitting so long her left foot was numb, so she stepped around the Louis-Philippe room, forcing her leg to move. She considered for a moment to stay in the room and let Erik get her instead of she searching for him. Then she sighed and went looking for him, hoping he suddenly wouldn't show up like last time. She forced himself not to think too deep about him, or she knew she would then come at some ideas she shouldn't have about her kidnapper, like pity or even friendship.

* * *

When she had wandered around, or better, been lost in, the house for some time, she heard a soft beautiful violin. She couldn't help smiling; it was the love song from _La __Bohème_, but then more perfect than all other versions she had ever heard of it. She followed the sound, coming at the end of a hall at a door. She knocked and went in. The music had ceased and she saw Erik's back, the violin in his hand, still in opera cloak and (she thought) staring in the fire. He looked strained; there was a strange tension in his shoulders. From the corner of her eye she saw a black spot on the desk- wasn't that his… mask?

"Erik?"

"Close your eyes, please, Christine." Not actually surprised she did like he asked. She felt his cloak brushing against her hand and controlled herself for not drawing it back. "You can look again," his voice sounded. She opened her eyes. He stood at exactly the same spot as he had stood before, like he hadn't moved at all, the yellow eyes behind the mask fixed upon her. The black spot on the desk had disappeared.

"I've got the letters." She reached them out to him. He nodded and put them away in his cloak.

"I'll make sure they're delivered."

She nodded, hesitated briefly and then asked: "What you just played, that was from _La Bohème_, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was."

"Could- could you play it again?" she blushed.

He didn't spoke a word, but his eyes gleamed bright while he gestured to the canopy in the room and lifted the violin.

* * *

Christine sat on her bed, knees pulled up till they almost touched her chin. She was dressed in the nightgown she had found in the cupboard in the Louis-Philippe room, together with the most beautiful dresses she had ever seen and which all fit perfectly. She had the strong suspicion Erik had prepared them all carefully for her. Although she was tired, she didn't feel like sleeping. She was thinking.

They had both forgotten the time while he played for her, first _La Bohème_, then smoothly passing into Mozart, followed by some pieces she had never heard before. She had somewhere thought vaguely he was probably making it up in the moment, while she gazed at his lithe, bony fingers playing, almost forgetting the yellow, eager eyes that never left her for an instant.

They had been there until dinner, not even having lunch. She hadn't mind at all, and Erik hadn't eaten again. She thought, clearly for the first time, about what he had said to her on her first evening. He had said his father never had been there, and that his mother had bought him his first mask… Poor man, she thought, and her heart almost broke. No wonder he was so crazy about her. It wasn't so much he asked, and still it was too much. Being loved. For the first time since she was kidnapped, she thought of Raoul. Dear Raoul, her childhood sweetheart. He had been so nice to her all the time, though he must have thought she was crazy sometimes. She now wished she had been nicer too.

What to do about Erik? He had sung for her after dinner and when she had smiled gratefully at him, she had seen the complete happiness in his eyes…

What to do?

* * *

sorry, a bit short and veeeeerrrryyy late:-(! But I had some troubles, first I had that quarrel with superman, then Batman wouldn't leave me alone, then that Black Hole-thing and as bonus I had a lot of tests on school lately! It could be that I don't update for a month or two, because I'm gonna have exams too, and then I'm going on vacation for a month and that laptop really hates me!

P.S. does anyone likes ALW? Then you really should try Sunset Boulevard! Love that one (but POTO stays the best!;-))

But I do love all those reviews!


	4. Day 2: Three o'clock in the morning

**Disclaimer:** not mine.

**Author's note:** don't know how I've managed to write this, with all the work I've got...Anyway, enjoy!

P.S. Elentir, thank you!

* * *

Christine woke up with a start. She had dreamed something that made her now pant and look frightened around. She pushed her hands against her eyes and felt sweat on her brow. Shakily she stood up and walked to her little bathroom.

She bowed forward, wetted a small face flannel and dabbed her face with it. What had the dream been about? She thought back, but the memory seemed to slip past her, and laugh at her from a safe distant. All she could recall was scraps of terrible, beautiful wolf howls, with far behind it something that resembled organ. Everything had been so scary, but with a terrible beauty. She shivered and looked in the mirror.

A stranger looked back. The lamplight made her only paler, while she was already ashen. There were dark rings under her blue eyes, which stared deadly frightened at her. The darkness around her seemed to linger, to wait to catch her, to imprison her…

Light! Light! Light! She needed light! She rushed over to the candles and put them all on. Then she took the gas lamp, put it on also and put it next to her bed. She then crawled back under the blankets, but quickly found out that there were still lurking shadows in the corners, which kept crawling nearer and nearer and put their claws out to her…

She screamed and ran out of the room, through the house, away, away from the shadows, the night, but everywhere, everywhere, were more and more and more and more shadows… One even called her name when she passed him and turned his faceless face to her. She screamed again and ran for it. "Christine!"

"No! No! Leave me!" He took her wrist and his touch was moist and bony at the same time and she just wanted to get away, to the light… Where was her light…

"Christine! Calm down!"

"Let go of me! You monster!"

He let go of her so abruptly she stumbled and fell down. He knelt down quickly and silently. Of course, Christine thought bewildered, of course, he's a shadow, isn't he? One without a face…

"So that's how you think of me?" he hissed close to her face. Why didn't he have a mouth? "So that's what you really think of me? Have you been playing games with Erik? Be careful, my dear, for he cheats…" He laid his hands in her hair, entwining his fingers with the locks of her hair. "He'll cheat, like you cheated him, my dear, beautiful little cat… my lovely, treacherous Christine…" Did all shadows have such terrible, staring golden eyes? He was surrounding her, he'd swallow her, he was already climbing, he covered her legs with a strange, soft black something…

Why didn't he have a face? Why didn't he have one? She raised her hands and he chuckled softly. "Ah, does my Christine want to feel?" He took her hand, and though she shivered, she let him. As long as the shadow proved he had a face. He placed it against the place his cheek would be and the two amber lights disappeared. She could hear him breathe in slowly. She trembled. His face, wherever it was, felt cold, stony, but beneath it, there was something bony. Her hand moved over the bones, further and further, until she found something to hook her fingers. Then she pulled it off.

His mouth, which had hardly lips, was twitched with anger and the golden eyes stared furiously at her. His face wasn't black, not shadowy at all, more skull-like yellowish. "So, so, Christine wants to see also, doesn't she?" he whispered. "So you want to see your Erik, Christine?"

Shecrawled on her feetand walked to the fireplace. He watched her, still sitting on the floor, like a panther staring at his prey.

With a firm movement, she threw the mask in the fire and turned back to him.

He stared at her, incredulously, with a flicker of joy. "Please, don't ever hide from me again, Erik," she muttered, her voice quivering as hard as herself. Then she fainted.

* * *

I know, too short chapters! But it are the only ones I can write about this! Hopeyou got the thing with the light -> Raoul...

Review are appreciated, loved, adored, cherished,...


	5. Day 2: Until seven o'clock am

Hi, I'm just posting this quickly, because I felt sorry after all those great reviews to let you wait already so long... Actually I should be studying math.

**Disclaimer:** I don't owe anything, it is all from ALW, Gaston Leroux and Susan Kay

**Author's note:** This is Erik's POV. I hope you all like it, 'cause Erik's terribly hard to write!

**Author's note 2:**I'm going to thank everyone who has reviewed uptil now: Thanks to Elentir (double),obsessedbyerik, The Gypsy-Pirate Queen (nice name), MJ MOD, Deirdre of the Sorrows (thanks for the correction), Mika, Cupid&Psyche4ever, Phantasmarose (that sounds dreamy!), Rabidfangirl67, Potosynthesis (what for synthesis?), Duckey in Spandex and Rowan (isn't that a god?).

* * *

_"Belle_

_C'est un mot qu'on dirait inventé pour elle..."_

_Quasimodo, 'Le Notre-Dame de Paris'_

She was beautiful. His Christine. He stared at her, his yellow eyes softly and tenderly glowing.

He sat next to the bed on his knees, the opera cloak spread out around him like a bat's wings. She had token it away. And she had looked at him without flinching. Without moving a muscle, no, she had moved, she had even looked relieved. His Christine.

Her fair hair was spread around her face like an aureole. She lay on her side, her face turned to his. Even in her sleep…

He looked. He didn't care for time or date, he just looked. Watched each feature of her face, though he could picture her already if he just closed his eyes. His Christine. Son amour…

"Mon amour," he whispered and felt strangely happy just hearing those foreign sounds roll over his tongue. They would be happy together, they would. He would give her everything. Everything. And in time…

He put out his hand, his bony, skeleton-hand and touched hers. Her face twitched and she rolled over onto her back. He quickly withdrew his hand, but she didn't wake up. But it didn't matter. It didn't matter. In time she wouldn't mind, even long for his touch.

She lay peaceful again and he studied her fully now. His amber, eager eyes slowly slid from her feet, caressing every inch of her body, to her legs to her knees to her thighs to her hips to her abdomen to her arms to her hands to her fingers to her hands to her arms to her shoulders to her breast to her neck and back to her face.

There played a soft smile around her lips and her long eyelids battered for a moment, but she still didn't wake up. Erik closed his eyes and let his other senses take over.

He heard her soft, slow breath, could hear her breast going up and down, heard her night dress rustle.

A light scent touched the black hole that was supposed to be his nose and he opened the remainders of his nostrils wide, so he could smell her warm, safe body scent, mingled with her light, flowery perfume.

He could even feel her body warmth, or maybe it was the memory of it, the memory when he had carried her to her bed and had had the change to gently tuck her in.

His Christine. _His_ Christine…

He looked again.

After what should have been hours, but for love only a moment, he stood up and walked to the door.

"Mon amour," he whispered and was rewarded with a small sigh from the bed. With something that could be called a smile he closed the door.

* * *

Hope you liked it. Those lines on top mean something like: 'Beautiful, that's a word that has to be invented for her'. I don't think it's a perfect transilation, but it'll do. Please review! 


	6. Day 2: morning

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, it all belongs to the ones who own it. Okay, that sounded intelligent.

**Author's note:** this is the history of the song in this chapter. The translation stands at the end of the chapter.  
Poem by Théodore Faullin de Banville (1823-1891)  
Under the title: « Ils se dissent, ma colombe »

Music by Charles Gounod (1818-1893)  
Under the title: « L'âme de la morte » (1860)  
Under the title: « L'âme d'un ange »  
Subtitle: «La rondinella" (1860, published 1865)

Music by Reynaldo Hahn (1875-1947)  
Under the title: « L'enamourée »

Translation(2002): Peter Low

Author's note 2: I'd like to thank everyone who has reviewed untill now, and secondly I've got something to ask you: should I put more descriptions in the chapter? Maybe you'd rather let your imagination work, maybe you want me to do it for you. Let me know.

* * *

Christine woke up, her head aching and her face sweaty. She moaned and covered her eyes when the candlelight touched her eyes. Then she turned her head away, blinked and tried to recall how she had gotten in bed last night. She couldn't remember anything except… the mask! Erik! She sat up straight, but almost fell down again when the weariness swept over her again.

The neatly lain covers slid from her body. She hardly noticed the cold rushing to her when she looked back at the candle. Next to the light source, the flames flickering, caressing the petals, lay a single, black rose.

She stared for some time at it, forcing her drowsy brains to think, then pushed aside the purple covers and walked, still half asleep, to the white-and-blue bathroom. _A bath,_ she thought, _I really need a bath…_

She put on the lights in the room, stepped on the small rug which lay in front of the tub, opened the hot water cock and listened with closed eyes, leaning against the white wall, to the splashing of the water drops. When the bath was full, she unbuttoned her night dress, allowing the soft, white material to slide from her body, so she stood totally naked on the blue rug. On the tips of her toes she stepped aside, so her toes touched the ice-cold, stone floor. Then she lowered herself, as much skin as possible touching the floor.

She turned to the small closet next to her mirror, with the perfume, face flannels, soap, many bath oils and hairpins. She reached out and took one of the bottles with bath oil. She removed the cork and the soft scent of lavender filled the room. After pouring some in the bathwater, she pinned up her hair, the back of her neck feeling very cool now her sweaty hair wasn't glued to it anymore. Then she slowly stepped in the bath, whimpering because of the warm water. When she lay down, she closed her eyes and slowly relived everything that had happened last night.

Her eyes opened again. _One thing for sure… I'll have to stop fainting so much,_ she thought. She unpinned her hair and, closing her nose with her fingers, took a duckling.

* * *

She had taken a bath.

He knew it before he even turned around. He didn't know how he knew; was it the soft lavender scent that hung around her like a summer cloud? The sound of her little feet which seemed to move more swiftly and lighter than usual? The humidity her skin seemed to breathe out? He really hadn't a clue.

"Erik?" Her voice, so friendly, tender… when she spoke his name...

He turned around. Her grant blue eyes shone, little twilights in them. She didn't move away. _She doesn't move away from me… She isn't scared of Erik… _Her blonde hair was a little darker than usual, because she had washed it. A little stray of hair hang just above her eyebrow, like hesitating if to fall in her eye or not. He wanted to brush it away, or maybe just hold it in his hand, feeling the softness. As she seemed to float above the ground, her plain white dress rustled around her beautiful legs and seemed hardly to be able to catch by her light steps, so it glided behind her.

His look fell on her bosom and his eyes seemed to be on fire. There, in her corsage, sat his black rose…

_His Christine…_

* * *

It was terrible. It was hardly bearable. But she didn't mind. In two days she had get used to his face. She found the longing, the love that seemed to make him mad a lot scarier.

When he looked at the rose, she thought for a moment he was going to… she didn't know what. His amber eyes traced eagerly every inch in her face, trying to see any disappointment or fear by his sight, but when they didn't, something very much like a smile crept up his lips, but it was quickly replaced by an inscrutable face, as unreadable as his mask, though his eyes didn't loose a bit of their intensity. "How are you today, my dear?"

She smiled back. "I'm fine, Erik. I just hope I didn't… hurt you… last night?" Her eyes looked at him quizzically. Inside, she wondered if she was still acting or if she actually meant the friendly note in her voice.

"Not at all, my love," he replied, shoving a chair backwards so she could sit down. He seemed to enjoy endearments a lot. _It's probably the first time he uses them,_ she thought with a flicker of pity. He sat down at the other end of the table. She started eating.

* * *

_Why didn't he eat?_ She looked up from her croissant and saw he hadn't touched a crumb. "Erik? A-aren't you hungry?" she asked hesitant.

"I've taught myself not to need a lot of food, Christine." She nodded, almost afraid to say something more.

They, or rather, she ended the meal in silence. She felt too confused by him to say anything, and he seemed to be content in just gazing at her. When she was finished, Erik swiftly stood up. "What would you like to do, _mon amour_?"

"I-I don't really know." She looked hesitantly up to his face. "Could-could we just- sing something?" She wasn't able to keep the hope out of her voice or the sparks out of her eyes.

He smiled. "Follow me, Christine."

* * *

In one of the many rooms, this one with a pleasant blue carpet and walls in a slightly darker colour, they settled down. There was a grant, black piano in the room, and dark wooden cupboards full with scores. There were pieces of Mozart, Christine saw, Beethoven, Chalumeau, Bach, Schubert, Mendelssohn…

"Do you have any preferences, my dear?" She looked up. He had settled down behind the piano, leaving enough place for her to join him.

"I-I do have something…" Her right hand travelled absent minded over the backsides of the books. "But- it's times ago I heard it… But I think it will be… I'd like you to sing it with me."

"What is it Christine?" he whispered. "Look in the cupboard; it's more than likely in there."

She examined the titles and then determined pulled a big, leather bound score off the shelve. She almost staggered when the unexpected weigh crushed on her forearms, but the next moment Erik held the end with one hand and his other wavered behind her hips, in case she should fall. She smiled to him and together they laid the score on the piano standard. She began to turn the pages over, searching with her eyes the pages. Erik sat down again, watching her impatient hands which with an elegant movement turned the pages over.

"Here," she smiled, suddenly stopping at a short piece. He bowed over it, his eyes flickering for a moment when they saw the title. He nodded briefly and, without giving the score another look, started playing.

Christine felt tears pricking in her eyes when she heard the familiar, more beautiful than ever sounds. At the same moment Erik and she started singing, the voices of angels, his soft and lovely, hers tender and clear, merging together.

«Ils se disent, ma colombe,  
Que tu rêves, morte encore,  
Sous la pierre d'une tombe:  
Tu t'éveilles ranimée,  
O pensive bien-aimée ! » Christine felt the 'drops from Heaven', like her father had called them, run over her cheeks. Erik's eyes were still on her, but he seemed to understand they needed to go on, like he seemed to understand the music.

«Par les blanches nuits d'étoiles,  
Dans la brise qui murmure,  
Je caresse tes longs voiles,  
Ta mouvante chevelure,  
Et tes ailes demi-closes  
Qui voltigent sur les roses. » Her voice seemed to be stuck in her throat, but still, somehow, she managed to go on. Maybe it was the force of Erik's voice that gave her the power.

«O délices! Je respire  
Tes divines tresses blondes ;  
Ta voix pure, cette lyre,  
Suit les vagues sur les ondes,  
Et, suave, les effleure,  
Comme un signe qui se pleure ! » Christine waited till the last tunes of the piano had died away and then burst out in sobs, placing her arms on the piano and burying her face in them. "I-It was t-the s-song of m-my mother," she choked out, not looking at him, but still feeling his gaze. "M-my fat-ther u-used to s-say tha-that it d-described h-her. It-it pl-play-yed on his-his funeral." She hid her face again in her arms.

How long they had sat there like that, she didn't know, but suddenly Christine heard the gates of Heaven open. Erik had started singing again, a wordless, unaccompanied melody that spoke of her sadness, the terrible loss that would never be healed, but still offered a sort of comfort. It was an embrace, a reached out hand that stroked over her cheek, a soft caressing of her hair. She let the music and his love surround her and console her, in its own way.

"Th-thank you, E-Erik," she managed to choke out when he stopped. "T-thank y-you."

The longing in his eyes would have scared her to death, if she hadn't just buried her face in her hands again.

* * *

« They say, my dove,  
that you are still dead and dreaming  
beneath a tombstone;  
but you awaken, revived,  
for the soul that adores you,  
oh pensive beloved!

Through the sleepless nights,  
in the murmuring breeze,  
I caress your long veils,  
your swaying hair  
and your half-closed wings  
which flutter among the roses.

Oh delights! I breathe  
your divine blonde tresses!  
your pure voice, a kind of lyre,  
moves on the swell of the waters  
and touches them gently, suavely,  
like a lamenting swan! »

I know I stole the rose-thing from ALW, but I couldn't resist!  
Please review!


	7. Day 2: noon

**Disclaimer:** Nihil. Noppes. Nada.

**Author's note:** I know, I know! I haven't updated for ages! I'm so sorry! I was on a holiday! Please don't throw those rotten eggs, I made you a very long chapter, please... (gets arotten tomato in her face) oh, haha.

Special thanks to Duckey in Spandex, anonymous, Ripper de la Blackstaff, obsessedbyerik and Elentir for their reviews!

The last POVis a bit changed with the book, but, hey, I can be creative, right? (gets another rotten tomato in her face) Okay, okay, I get you point.

* * *

"I'm so sorry," Christine sobbed. "I'm so-" she shook her head and buried her face in the white handkerchief Erik had handed her.

They were still sitting in the blue room with the black, shining piano, the old, dark wooden grandfather's clock and the three cupboards of the thick, brown wood crammed with musical scores. Erik had bowed a bit closer to her, and she almost became sick when she saw those horrible, distorted futures so close to her own. "I'm making su-such scenes of myself," she muttered when she had calmed down a bit. She smiled through her tears at him.

"You don't, my dearest," he whispered, staring at every tear like it was sacred.

"Yes, I do. And you keep being so nice to me." She swept her tears away with his handkerchief and placed the white material on the piano.

His eyes flickered and he reached in the black clothes which seemed to be a part of his body. His yellow, parchment-coloured claw, standing out to his black, bat-like clothes, appeared again with between the bony fingers, a box with the size of a jewellery box, though a bit flatter. He handed it to her, being very careful not to touch her small, white hand. She examined it curiously, almost childlike, with big, blue eyes where the tears still dripped out, turning it around, studying the black-velvet box from all sides. "What's in it? Is it for me?" She looked up, excited.

"Of course it is, my dear. Open up." Her tiny fingers fiddled with the golden lock until the box, with a soft 'click', opened and revealed an arm chain.

Christine gasped. The arm chain was divine. It existed of golden chains linked together, and in the middle hung one golden music note, with a big, blue diamond. The diamond shone in the candlelight, almost hurting her eyes and flickering with appearing and disappearing starlight. It was as blue as ripples which softly caressed the beach, as blue as a cloudless summer sky, as blue as the magnificent dress which awaited her in her closet in the Louis Philippe room. It was as blue as her eyes.

"Erik…" He was looking very calm, but she saw his right hand clench in the black clothes. "Oh… It's so beautiful… I can't take this… It must have cost a fortune…" She was still staring at the jewel. He gazed upon her tenderly.

"You're worth it, my Christine," he whispered softly in her ear. "And I want you to wear it."

"Oh." She was speechless. "I… Erik… Thank you." She shook her head, still not believing it. "I… I don't know what to say."

"Say you'll wear it," he urged.

"I… Of course I will." She attached it around her wrist, giving him a quick look. His mouth was half opened, while a half enchanted smile crept up his –hardly worth the name- lips.

She still stared at the small music note, touching it carefully with a slender finger, and started when the big grandfather's clock in the corner behind them struck 2 o'clock. "Good gracious! Is it so late already?"

"It seems so," he replied, standing up. "Would you care for some lunch?"

"Well," she smiled, "I certainly wouldn't mind."

She walked to the door. There she turned around and noticed he hadn't moved. "You may go already, Christine. I will come right away." She nodded and left, not lightly surprised.

* * *

_She had left._ He looked up when the door closed. He turned back to the piano and carefully lifted the slightly moist handkerchief. He brought it slowly to his face and closed his eyes. He pushed it against his features, feeling the wet material against his eyelids, imagining he could smell her perfume, holding it against his lips. He once kissed it passionately, and then tenderly put it back in his pocket.

* * *

Just great. _How_ could she have been so stupid? How had she been able to forget that she didn't know the way back to the dining room? Christine wandered through the corridors, which reminded her of the Opera corridors above her; they indeed resembled greatly; the only main difference was that here downstairs there was less show. She liked it more this way.

She stopped before the only painting in the house. She hadn't seen a painting when they went to the music-chamber. So she had walked entirely wrong.

Instead of turning around and try to find the dinner room, she examined the painting curiously. She didn't know much about pictures, but she liked it. It seemed to be nothing special; it represented Jesus Christ and his apostles, with a couple of women. _This doesn't seem his kind of picture..._

Jesus had a hand in the air, like wanting to call a halt to something, maybe the talking two apostles. One of the apostles lingered at the end of the group, with such a malignant look on his face that it wasn't hard to imagine his name. The others stared adoring at their Master. The women had also a doting look on their face and a clear halo. The one who stood straight up had to be Mary, the Holy Mother. She was looking demurely down. The woman at her right, with a slightly smaller halo and length, had to be Mary, the mother of John. Also she had lowered her eyes. And the woman on her left… Christine gasped. The woman on the left of the Holy Mother had to be Mary Magdalene.

The woman looked so alive that she could jump of the painting every second now. She was wearing a suggestive deep décolleté and the material fell around her body like water, but that didn't had anything to do with the look on her face. She was the only woman who looked up, to Jesus, and on her face and in the hazel brown eyes was a deep love and adoration. Her posture suggested a natural elegance and her lips were parted in a small, happy smile.

"Do you like it?" Christine whirled around. Erik had his head cocked aside and he examined her curiously.

"A lot," she smiled. "But I hadn't expected it in here."

He chuckled softly. "I kept it for _her_." His finger wavered for a moment before Mary Magdalene. "The rest of the painting could go into flames for all I care. She- reminds me a bit of you." She understood the compliment had nothing to do with the woman's job and felt herself blush with pleasure under the compliment.

"Where did you buy it?" She turned back to the painting.

"I didn't." At her wide-eyed look he chuckled again. "I didn't steal it either." She nodded quickly, turning red. "It was a… gift."

_Did he know someone so well that that person gave him gifts?_ She tried to look away, so he couldn't read the question in her eyes. "That… person has another religion. He had gotten it from a Christian negotiator; otherwise he'd never have accepted it. He saw I liked it, and gave it to me."

She listened attentively. She had never known him to speak about his past. But of course… he had one. He had shouted about his parents at her. But apparently he had had friends also. Few, probably, but…

_He deserves so much more than this haunted existence._ A lump appeared in her throat. "I… I'd like to meet that person, I think."

He threw a look on her and an amused smile appeared. "Maybe you will, my dear."

* * *

They –or rather, she- ate in silence again. She was starting to dislike the moments in the dinner room. When they didn't do anything, his gaze was quite unnerving.

"I'll have to leave you for some time, my dear," he said when she had finished. "I need to check on my opera."

"You're… you're going to leave me alone?" she swallowed. She didn't want to be left alone. Not in this house alone. _Please, say you won't go…_

"It won't be for long, Christine," he said softly. "I promise it won't be for long." His eyes traced her face. "I'll be back quickly. I have to check what Richard and Moncharmin are doing…"

She nodded and looked away. She didn't want to be reminded he was the Phantom of the Opera. He was Erik. No angel, no ghost. Just Erik.

"Christine…" She started. He had moved so terribly silent again, and sat now before her on his knees. "I'll soon be back…" His normally so perfectly calm voice had a hoarse rang to it. "Will you… will you… miss your Erik a bit? Will you think of him a bit?"

"Of course," she whispered, trying not to look in those golden orbs.

He nodded, but she didn't think he had heard her. He was just staring.

"I'll soon be back," he huskily spoke, more to himself then to her.

* * *

"Mais qu'est-ce que on peut _faire_?" But what can we _do_? Richard stopped pacing and looked at his pale companion. Moncharmin hadn't been alright since they had sat in box 5 the night Faust was performed. Or, like some of the crew called it, the 'toad-night', or the 'ghost's triumph', or the 'chandelier's fall'. Every time Richard heard one of those names, he had a fit of rage, and everybody quickly made their getaway. Moncharmin still stared at him, a helpless, desperate look in his eyes. He was trembling all over and had hardly spoken a word since then.

"We do what we're supposed to do, of course," Richard replied sharply. "Run this opera!"

"That's not what I mean! What do we do… with _him_?"

Richard didn't answer. He had tried to convince himself the voice he had heard had been his imagination, that everything else had been an accident. But it was impossible. La Carlotta's voice… the bodiless voice in his ear… the chandelier falling on exactly _those_ people's head… too much coincidence, he thought.

"And then something else," his partner continued, "that letter of the Daaé-girl. It was delivered in exactly the same way as… _his_ letters are. What do we do with her? She writes she doesn't know when she comes back."

Richard paced up and down again for some time, sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. He felt a million years old and not for the first time he wished he had never heard of the Opéra Populaire or O.G.

"We do what he commands, Moncharmin," he said finally. "That would be the safest. And about the girl…" he frowned, "if she really has something to do with him, I hope she stays away long."

Moncharmin had been in the middle of a nod, but now he whirled around. "What was…"

"Qu'est-ce qui se passe?" What's happening?

"I… I saw something there…" Moncharmin gestured to a dark corner of the room.

Richard frowned. "You're imagination is running away with you, Moncharmin," he snapped. The other, knowing his companion's temper, quickly sat down again.

* * *

The Persian, like he was known in the Opéra Populaire, stalked through the deserted corridors. He had never developed the ability to be more shadow than person, like Erik, but he had a certain cunning to make himself… for not drawing attention. Thanks to that gift, which Erik had taught him, he had just been able to sneak into the managers' office and listen to their conversation. _They weren't doing anything… probably the wisest thing to do._ He leant against a wall, coughing hard in his hand. He was getting sick, stalking through cold corridors with a terrible cold. _Maybe it would wiser if you kept out of **his** business too…_ He smiled bitterly. But he had to know what would happen to Christine Daaé. The managers didn't know anything. Of course, that was to be expected. He rubbed with his hand over his forehead. He had a huge headache.

"That's a nasty cough you have there, daroga," the wall on his left remarked. More out of a habit than because he expected to see anyone he looked around.

"I told you falling in lakes has a bad influence on one's health," the wall onhis right continued. What he immediately heard was the tone in the other's beautiful voice. He had never heard Erik sounding so cheerful -or so out of his mind.

"Alright Erik," he sighed. "Are you after the left or the right wall?"

"So little choices, daroga?" a mocking voice from above the Persian's head said. A small chuckle rose from betweenhis feet.

"Please Erik; you know I hate talking to thin air. It makes me look totally silly."

"What you are." His voice, now in the Persian's right ear, sounded a bit chillier. Somehow it was a relief. It sounded more like Erik. "A silly ass. I told you to leave Erik to his business. So _why_ are you stalking through my Opera again and listening to conversations with myself as topic?"

The Persian was stupefied, though it had been stupid to think he wouldn't know. Erik chuckled again. "Ah, daroga, you should know me better by now… I told you I'm everywhere and I hear everything…"

"Please, my friend-" the other started, butErik interrupted him, colder with every word, but also a bit amused.

"Do you have such a small circle of friends, _my friend_?" he mocked. "Now use your brains, daroga," he added threatening.

"Why? Are you also going to use the Punjab-lasso on me, Erik?" the Persian asked bitterly.

"I'm being patient, my friend, very patient… and you know that is not something I'm good in. So keep your Persian nose out of my affairs! You're lucky, daroga… most people wouldn't get as far as you are."

"And the girl?"

"What about the girl?" he snapped, for the first time losing his temper. "She's happy with me! But you couldn't believe that, could you, daroga! It's impossible anyone could love Erik!"

"Erik, you know I don't mean it like that," he said wearily, rubbing with his hand over his face. _Damned headache…_ "I only want nobody killed."

"Neither do I." he sounded calm again.

"I've noticed so,"the Persianreplied bitterly.

"You seem a bit sarcastic, daroga…"

"Allah help me!"he exclaimed. "He has let a chandelier fall on two innocent people, killed a poor stagehand, kidnapped a young girl and he complains _I'm a bit sarcastic_!"

"Calm down, daroga…"The Persiancould almost feel those two golden orbs rest on him. "You shouldn't get to excited. You've got a small fever. Why don't you go home and lie down?"

"Erik…"

"No, daroga. Strangely enough I'm concerned about that very tiring health of yours. Go home."

The Persian obeyed those last words, which were uttered a bit gentler than the others.

* * *

Reviews... pumpumpum... chocolate for reviews... give me your address and I'll send you some chocolate... pumpumpum... But you have to give a review... 


	8. Day 2: Christine's noon

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything.

**Author's note:** Thanks to Lady Candar, ChristinErik, Ducky in Spandex and Virginie for their latest reviews. Special thanks to my new beta and muse, obsessedbyerik.

۞

Christine sighed. She was bored. Erik had explained her the way to the library and after their lunch, she had gone to the Louis-Philippe room to refresh herself. After half an hour, she had returned, finding the drawing room with the piano empty. On a small oak table, placed parallel to the grand piano, lay a note written in the clumsy, childish script that Christine immediately recognised as Erik's. She picked up the yellowed paper in her hands and read the distinctly red ink...

_My dear Christine,  
I have left already, for which I apologize. I shall return as soon as I can. I have an appointment to keep with our dear managers; they seem to have forgotten to remove the rest of the chandelier.  
Erik_

The chandelier! Christine's eyes widened. Of course! She hadn't thought about the disaster anymore since she had met Erik… would there be many deaths? She grasped the ends of the wooden table. That chandelier could have killed so many people! It was so huge… And she hadn't had the slightest thought about the fate of those under the chandelier! Her problems had been of course huge, but still, it was selfish of her. Hopefully no one had been unfortunate enough to get killed. That would be awful! How did the enormous fixture crash into the audience? Perhaps the chains had become rusted and had broken under sheer pressure…

She shook her head, trying to get rid of the dark broodings. Those morbid thoughts had no use. However cruel it was, those people were not helped with her pity. The best she could do was concentrate on a way out of here. She had to concentrate on Erik.

She moved to a door at the other end of the room and pushed the door handle down. It would not open. She frowned and pushed again. Seeing the door refused to open, she set a step backwards and examined it. She gasped, no wonder the door stood firm under her grasp! It was the door to Erik's room, the room with the huge organ and the coffin, the room in which his _Don Juan Triumphant _lay. Erik would be furious if she entered his room without his direct permission, the thought of his anger frightened her more than she could say.

She turned around and made an effort to remember Erik's instructions. She would have to go to the left here… around the corner… open the fifth door on her left… follow the corridor and open the door on the end. She did so and recognised the way she was going. If she was right, then she would have to pass… yes! Here was the painting. She stopped for a moment, eying the woman that Erik thought bore her resemblance.

"You know him already a long time, don't you?" Christine said out loud. "What do you think of him? Are you as confused by him as I am?" She waited, willing the ostracized Mary to respond. Suddenly she turned and walked in the opposite direction, putting her hand to her head. What was she thinking! Talking against a painting. She had to be going mad, stuck down here, with no one as company besides Erik… who was probably as mad as she was.

During her silent contemplation about her state of mind, Christine had unconsciously wandered to the library. She smiled, the words whispered to her from the hundreds of books that lay within could ease her worries. Stepping over the threshold, Christine's breath was taken from her.The room was totally covered with bookshelves. Only the middle of the wall on her right was uncovered. Instead there was a huge hearth, in which a warm fire crackled, throwing flickering shadows on a couple of armchairs on the rug.

Christine decided to explore the room first. Whilst Christine stayed near to the wall, she should be able to walk the complete perimeter of the room without having to traverse the halls of bookshelves. But as she turned the corner she noticed a large opening in the wall, and with all dark places, no amount of light could fully shine upon its insides. Like the gaping mouth of a monster, the darkness loomed forth, only held back by the light from the roaring fire. She hesitated for a moment. Would she walk on or stay in the areas she knew?

She resolutely turned away from the menacing darkness and walked out of the library.

۞

Five minutes later she was back, in her left hand a candle, in her right a ball of wool. Her face was set grim. Maybe it was exaggerating, the way she acted, but she wouldn't get lost this time. Somehow, she would beat Erik.

She squatted down and bound the wool around a leg of one of the armchairs. Then she lighted the candle and pushed her blonde curls out her eyes. While walking towards the bookcases, she unwounded the wool. Luckily she had always loved the Greek legends, like the one in which Adriane gave Theses rope so he wouldn't loose the way in the labyrinth.

The first bookcase contented more books about music, but now commentary on pieces. Curious she took one, called _The God Mozart_ and opened it on a random page. In the margin, there were scribbled remarks in red ink. After reading a few, mostly corrections stating the faults of the writer, she put it back and walked on, but kept unwinding the wool. The wall of books, where she had stopped last time, contained books about travelling and atlases, mostly over the Far East. She rounded two more corners and walked out a longer corridor. The next cases were novels. She wondered how he had placed the books; it was certainly not on title or writer. It seemed completely arbitrary; books by the same writer didn't even stand on the same shelve. She stopped by some titles which she thought she had heard of before; totally surprised in finding the books here, she bowed forward. _The Three Musketeers_ and _Les Misérables_ leant against each other, two shelves down stood _The Hunchback of the Notre-Dame_ and at the highest shelve of the bookcase appeared _The Count of Monte-Christo_. By coincidence her father had told her about those stories; they were all forbidden by the church. What were they doing here then? Or were it rewritten versions? She bowed forward and took _The Hunchback of the Notre-Dame_ off the shelf. Christine remembered a few details about their plots, along with some of the characters. The poor Quasimodo reminded her of Erik, lonely and nearly deprived of all human companionship. Indeed, if Christine ever had the time, she should read those tales.

She wandered some time more through the labyrinth, but after some time, when she had met two strings of the wool, indicating she had already passed at the place once, she decided to leave the library, which seemed to become gloomier and more silent by the minute. Besides, it wasn't too easy to hold the candle in her hand while she kept a rather large book under her arm. Her other hand was completely occupied with the unwinding of the wool. So she followed the string back, being very carefully none of it was left behind. She was very proud that she had beaten Erik's strange, mad ideas, but she didn't know how he would react if he found out she had. What if he became angry?

When she got back to the hearth, she untied the knot around the leg of the armchair and blew out the candle. She seated herself in the same armchair and tried to make herself comfortable and to loose herself in the book. But every time she looked up, the shadows cast upon the bookcases were more threatening and frightening. Finally, she stood up and decided to go to her room and read on. This house was terrible without Erik. With in her left hand the candle and wool and while her right clenched the book tightly to her breast, she quickly made her way back to the Louis-Philippe room, only stopping briefly to look at the painting. She kept walking quicker and quicker, until she was running, flying, through the corridors, in the Louis-Philippe room, slamming the door noisily behind her.

۞

Christine looked up, leaving Gringoire in the middle of a monologue. She thought she had heard something. "Erik?" she called uncertain of her assumption, what if it was just a mouse? No response. Surely Erik would answer her?

Christine let herself slide out from under her luscious bedspread and onto the cold, stone floor. Her eyes scanned the room, no one. Of course, she had known that ever since she looked at the room from her bed. She walked to the bathroom and peeked inside. No one. She bit on her lip, shook her head and turned around.

For the first time, she noticed a door, not the door to the corridor and then the dinner room who was on her left, but another one. It seemed like a normal, heavy oak wooden door. Curious, she walked towards it and tried to open it. It was locked. She frowned. Why was almost every door in this house locked? Again she turned the doorknob around, more crossly than last time.

At the same time there was an angry cry behind her.

Paling visibly, she turned around. Erik stormed closer, his death's head twitched in rage. "Don't touch that door!" he yelled. She immediately let go of the doorknob. "Don't ever touch it again, Christine!" He repeated, still shouting. His golden eyes burned and his throat throbbed. "That room you may never enter, understood?" He grasped her wrist violently. His cold touch tingled on her skin.

"Yes, Erik!" she squealed. "I promise I'll never try to open it again! I didn't know it was forbidden! I'm sorry!" His grip hurt. He held the wrist around which the golden arm chain hung, which bit meanly in her flesh because of the pressure.

He didn't seem to hear her, and just went on, with a note of desperation in his angelic voice. "That is the torture chamber! No one is to enter it without my permission! Yes, you have to have my permission! If not, you have to keep your nose out of it! Everyone needs to keep his nose out of Erik's business, or maybe they'll end up in the torture chamber! Woe to those who come to peek in it! I don't have a nose, my dear, had you seen that already? So I'm not too curious, but people who have one should keep it out of my business! Why won't people leave me alone? Look, look, come with me, Christine!"

And he dragged her along firmly, through the corridor, through the dinner room, and stopped for the door to his room with the coffin. Christine was at the very point of breaking into tears. She was deadly frightened. What would he do with her?

He pushed against the door and, to her amazement, it flew open. He saw her incredulous look. "Yes, I can open the door, Christine! You know how they used to call me in Persia? The trapdoor-lover! For I can open any door I want, without a key! But come, come!" They went into the room and he stopped before the organ, pointing at a little bag which hung aside the huge pipes. "Look! Look, my Christine! This-" and he took the little leather bag of the wall, "-is the little bag of life and death! And you know what's in it, Christine?" she shook quickly her head. "Two keys! You see?" He opened the bag and finally let go of her wrist, which she clinched tight with her other hand. In his hand appeared two little keys, one in bronze and the other in iron. "You see, my dear? The one in iron opens the door to the torture chamber, and the other one-" he laughed, he laughed the most maddening laugh Christine had ever heard, "-the other one is to a zoo, a zoo, my dear! And once, once, you'll go and see it! There aren't many animals, but I think you will like them! Yes, I do think you will! What do you say, my Christine?" The two yellow orbs rested on her.

"If- if you go with me, Erik," she said softly, her voice trembling slightly.

He seemed suddenly disconcerted. "Well, of course, of course I'll accompany you," he muttered. "Of course, yes, it can't be otherwise… I'll be with you, my Christine… I'm your Erik, and I'll be with you or no one!" His eye fell on her wrist she still held. "But… did I hurt you, my dear? Show me your wrist. I insist! Show me, show me, Christine!"

"It isn't a big deal, really," she said hastily. "It doesn't hurt so much."

"Please, Christine, did I hurt you?" he moaned. "Show me!"

Reluctantly she removed her hand. There was a red mark around her wrist. A wail passed his lips and he stared at the mark. "My fault!" he moaned. "I'm sorry, my Christine! I've hurt you, haven't I? And frightened you! I'm a monster! Je le regrette! Je le regrette, ma Christine!" There were tears in his eyes, Christine noticed with a shock. "Forgive me! Please, forgive your poor Erik! Stay!" He broke down on the floor, sobs rising from his throat, while he muttered all the time: "Ne me quitte pas! Ne me quitte pas! Christine!"

Christine gazed at him. She didn't know how his mad logic had taken the step from the red mark to the idea she might leave him, but the image of Erik, lying at her feet and imploring her forgiveness, was so heartrending she knelt down. "Erik," she whispered. "Erik! Don't cry! I'm not angry with you! I won't go away! I'm not leaving you! See? Je suis ici! I'm staying with my Erik!" she felt also the tears gather in her eyes.

Carefully she put out her hand and reached for one of the brown curls which were left upon his skull. Before she could touch him though, he looked up, his golden eyes wet. "You won't leave? You'll stay with me? With Erik?"

"Of course," she managed to smile, her hand still an inch from his head. "Of course. I'm your Christine, am I not?"

۞

Please review!


	9. Day 2: noon and night

Disclaimer: I don't own anything of the following characters. It all belongs to Gaston Leroux, ALW, Susan Kay and all those other lucky dogs.

Author's note: I apologize for the delay. Just so you know: there aren't going to be regular updates in the future. I have too much work and when I'm finally done; I mostly just want to sleep. So a thousand apologies again.

Special thanks to Pink Spider 11, Ducky in Spandex and phasmatis lupus for their latest reviews. Also a big thanks and hug for my beta, obsessedbyerik.

* * *

"Erik, please get up! I don't want to be the source of your tears..." She felt as though she had forced him to lie at her feet, that her words had shackled him to the floor. His dark silhouette peered up, staring at her for a moment, slowly rising to his feet. His golden orbs glistened with shed tears. "Do you have a handkerchief?" It seemed to take a moment before he realised what she had said. He reached in one of his pockets and handed over a moist handkerchief. She took it, wondering briefly how it had become so wet, and started to dab his face ever so gently. He leant over, slightly pushing his face against the handkerchief. His eyes stayed closed, enjoying the moment.

Christine felt very strange, her left hand on his chest and the other brushing the wet material against his flesh. It surprised her how thin he was. She could clearly feel his ribs, heaving up and down under his deep breaths. His clothes were too big for him; he was nearly swimming in them. She carefully pushed the handkerchief against Erik's eyes, producing a soft rumbling from his throat. It was darker then the sound Professor Valerius used to make when he was content; like a happy, round stuffed animal you just had to hug. Erik was more like a lean cat, lying on the rug next to the fire, being petted on its soft stomach and producing a loud purr. It seemed like she was caressing a huge, dangerous panther, which had closed his eyes and purred in pure joy. The only thing Erik lacked was a tail he could wiggle.

That last thought made her almost feel sick, most of all because there was so much truth in it. He was like a dog, ready to do her bidding, whatever it may be. Even a wish for murder he would obey.

"Erik?" He opened his eyes immediately; it almost hurt to see the submissiveness shining in them. "I- Shall we… do something? I mean- could we- play some music or something?" Anything to stop him looking like that.

Something slowly faded in his eyes. Was it hope? He took the handkerchief back, never once touching her skin with his long, lithe finger, and putting it somewhere in his suit. Meanwhile, he walked over to the door, laying his hand on the handle. "Follow me, Christine."

She pattered behind him through the hallways, which she recognised as the corridors they had walked through this morning. They'd probably go to the same room they had been in this morning.

Indeed, she was right. Erik pushed the heavy wooden door open and again they entered the music room. Christine took her surroundings in, feeling her toes wiggle in sheer enjoyment. This room was so… music-like. The scores in the mahogany cupboards seemed to sing to her, beckon her to take them from their shelves, to open them and pour the written notes out. The piano seemed to be waiting impatiently, yearning to be touched, to bring forth sound. Even the blue carpet seemed to whisper to her, taunt her with all the notes yet to be taught, the songs yet to be learned. Without her noticing a smile graced her lips. She couldn't understand it, but being with Erik made her long for music, _his_ music, and his divine voice.

She began reading the works in the cupboards, stroking their backs with her small finger. The books were ordered, or unordered, in the same pattern as was in the library. This time she cared less for the order, rather, she cared for the scores beneath the leather bindings. Her finger had reached for the works of Bach and Pergolesi when she heard a soft wind saying her name. "Christine…"

She turned around. Erik sat before the piano and motioned her to sit beside him. "Let me play my music for you."

She smiled and serenely sat down beside him. As soon as she was comfortable he started playing. At once, all of her attention was directed at his elegant, white fingers. The music flooded her and she floated on the sound, she was weightless, like she was floating in a warm bath.

He suddenly pushed in three very hard notes and she jumped. Erik sat panting behind the piano, staring at the keys, his jaw clenched. "Erik?" she asked, confused and a bit frightened. "What's wrong?" At the sound of her voice his hands, clenched into fists, started to tremble violently. "Erik?" Her dress rustled as she moved a bit closer to him. With his golden eyes blazing and something burning in them she couldn't name, he turned to her.

"Christine…" he rasped. "_Christine_…" His eyes had captured her, she found herself unable to tear her gaze away. He lifted his shaking hands until they hovered beside her cheeks. She had difficulty breathing, falling into the golden pools of his eyes. Was she drowning in them? No, she was soaring between planets and stars, like she had no body anymore, little sparks appeared all around her…

Once again the grandfather clock interrupted their activities, saving Christine from what could have been an uncomfortable situation. Christine blinked, confused. _What just happened?_ Erik looked away, sweat pearling on his brow. "Let's- let's fix you dinner. And- after- after that, I- I want to be left alone."

Christine nodded, too shocked to say anything. Maybe it would be better not to question him.

۞

He sat alone in his room. _His room…_ The darkness always had helped him, had become a part of him in time. Sitting before his organ in complete darkness seemed no more than natural, even if his hands hung unemployed aside his thin frame. After all, he even saw better in darkness than in light. _Light…_

His hand grasped the moist handkerchief. Instinctively he hated light. Not only because darkness concealed him, while the daylight showed him cruelly to the world… somehow the old frustration about light had increased since he had met Christine.

Maybe it was because it was the thing he could loose Christine to. Maybe it was because it was the thing she needed. Maybe it was because… His nails sunk in the wet material. _The boy…_

Erik had spied on him thousands of times, the handsome boy that doted on Christine, had many chances to memorize his almost perfect features that contrasted so greatly with his own. His sunlight coloured hair, those sky blue eyes, the small, trim moustache and his always friendly smile… He seemed to be made of light.

Without thinking Erik cried out. He stood up and in one, uncontrolled movement he knocked his chair down.

The lust for murder burned in his blood, rushed through like the tide and his hand grasped the thick rope out of which his Punjab-lasso was created. All he wanted to do was snap the delicate neck of his rival…

In one hand he felt the firm material of the lasso, but in the other he still held the handkerchief. He slowly lowered his gaze until it touched the white material. The places where her tears had stained laid next to his skin.

He remembered how she had read the backs of the scores. Her body bent in S-form, her head cocked aside, her lips pursed…

He recalled how she had drifted away with his music, her eyes absorbed and dreamy, and for once not a hint of fear in their depths…

_Christine is mine._ His thin, deformed lips parted in a smile. _Mine._ No matter what the daroga said, no matter how good-looking the boy was, she would love him, or no one else.

She belonged to Erik, like his music and his total existence belonged to her.

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Okay, I've finally finished day 2! Was about time too. I hope you all will do the trouble to review, I will surely answer. 


	10. Day 3: Morning

**Disclaimer:** I do not own anything, except when it's completely insane and lunatic.

**Author's note:** I apologize a thousand times for my very, very late update. I also want to thank you all for staying with me. Though I had very good reasons to not write! I've been ill for two weeks, have a cold for two months now, my beta's mail stopped working and it seems like I'm so annoying she can't live with me any longer. So there's a job for a beta here. If you're interested or anyone you know is, please send a message to Thank you.

Now we're done advertisizing, the song in this chapter is called 'Il core vi dono' (I give you my heart) and features in the opera _Così fan tutte_ (Women are like that) by Mozart.

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« There is no heaven on Earth; we can only find some pieces. »

Jules Renard

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« His prominent eyes were direct and disconcerting. They gave no hint of mood, humour or temper; they rarely blinked, yet they weren't dead; they were electrically intense. »

_The Shadow in the North_ by Phillip Pullman

_

* * *

_

_« Il core vi dono,  
Bell'idolo mio » Erik gazed down upon her as he poured his angelic, poisonous voice in her ear. She was so beautiful._

_At some point, he didn't know when, he had stopped being angry about his 'infatuation' with the girl. In the start he had tried to stop himself from going to look at her, but had found that he was drawn to her, even as he wandered through the lost corridors of the opera. He had locked himself up in his room and then suddenly found himself in Box 5, watching her during the rehearsals. He dreamt about her milk white skin, those soft blue eyes that seemed to glimmer with sadness, her golden curls rustling on her back, her dress sweeping over the floor… and her voice. That strange, melodious, perfect voice. A pitch that could be higher, some practice, a bit smoothening… But the main problem was the emotion. Or the lack of that._

_Now her voice resounded through the room, loving, tender, a bit hesitating but ready to succumb, as Dorabella should talk to the disguised Guglielmo. Oh, his Christine…_

_She had been crying softly in her room one day. The moment she had lifted up her pretty little head and he had seen tears – they had almost seemed pearls – running down her flushed cheeks, he had started singing. He had come there to watch her, to adore her from a distance; now he had reached out to her. Her puffy, red eyes had widened and searched the room, no fear in them though she heard a strange man singing. She had gone out to look for the source of the angelic voice and he had profited from the situation to pick up his violin and change from a capella to accompanied singing._

_And she loved him._

_She loved the Angel. The Angel of Music. _Her_ angel, like she called him. Him, the hideous creature. The one his one mother couldn't even look at. The Devil. The monster._

_She loved him. He was certain of it. And if she did not already, he would teach her how, he would show her, show her that there was no cause for fear, no need for terror._

_Their voices mingled and he felt his own growing. He would give her the world, the whole foul world would crawl on his knees for her, in adoration for the voice their unworthy ears shouldn't even be blessed with. She would be loved, and, maybe, she would somehow give some of her love to Erik._

_He was a dog at her feet, he would throw himself before her, to show her, to show her how much he loved her, adored her, and she would understand, she would._

_But what if she didn't?_

_He felt his sanity sliding away. She had to! She would. She had to._

_His voice grew in force and desperately he tried to push those thoughts away from his already so distorted mind. He couldn't afford to go mad now. Not now. He would not, he thought, as his hands, his claws, uncontrolled plucked at his clothes._

_Her voice also grew in force, tried to keep up with his. He felt like Gugliemo, no, he was more than the man, though their goal had been the same: convincing a lady to love them. But his feelings were true. And hers, and hers…_

_Some of the emotions displayed in his voice had gotten a hold on her and she also was singing more desperately and – maybe, perhaps, he thought, not noticing the frantic tone that had crept in his voice – more loving._

_He totally forgot everything around him, the whole Angel of Music wasn't on his mind any longer; he only knew about how she sang to him, that he had to convince her, show her, stop this burning longing that hurt, that was slowly destroying him. He forgot about the mirror, about the room, could only stare at her with flaming eyes which heat had spread through his whole body. He sang, forgetting about ventriloquism._

_Her eyes widened as the full might of his voice came to work on her. She slowly reached out her arms to the mirror and came closer, hypnotised. She came closer and closer, much too close, not close enough, touching the mirror, letting her slender, beautiful white fingers slide over the glass. Her lips, her red, beautiful lips, slightly opened in wonder and awe, were only inches of the reflecting surface._

_He pressed his hands against the back of the mirror, against the cool material, one against each of her palms, and pushed his hot brow against the wretched mirror that stood between them. He wanted to touch her, to be caressed by her, to be _loved_ by her…_

_Their voices faded away and silence, thick, waiting silence that spoke without words crept in the room. Her eyes glittered as she dreamy gazed at her twin in the glass and the top of her lips were curled up._

"_Very well, Christine," he said and couldn't keep the smile that touched his deformed lips out his voice. "Go now. Tomorrow we will meet again."_

"_Yes, Angel." She obediently whispered in awe._

_He kept staring at her, not able to look away from every little movement. "Take care of your voice, my dear," he instructed while she put on her cravat. _

_At the door she turned around. "Angel?"_

"_Yes, Christine?"_

_She hesitated, blushed and looked at her feet. "Thank you."_

_He went down slowly. His lair, totally deserted, waited for him. He stepped in his room, his room that reflected him, his dead corpse, as well as the mirror had shown her beauty._

"_Il coro vi dono," he whispered to himself. "Il coro vi dono." He said it louder and louder. "Il coro vi dono, Christine!" He shouted it, it boomed through the house, until he was certain the whole opera, the whole world, had to hear him. "Il coro vi dono!"_

۞

Erik was reading the newspaper when Christine entered the dinner room. She felt quite proud of herself; the second time she had found her way around the labyrinth that Erik's house was without him to help her. It made her as happy as a child which received a sweet.

"Good morning, Erik," she greeted him.

He looked up and the faintest of smiles touched his lips. "Good morning, my dear. I trust you slept well?"

He stood up and shoved her chair backwards. "Yes, like a log, thank you," she replied as she sat down.

"Don't compare yourself with something like a log, my love. More a rose, I imagine…" His hand made a lazy gesture above her shoulder and he suddenly held a deep red rose. The long, dark green stem hovered beside her temple.

She clapped astonished and childlike excited in her hands. "Erik! How did you do that?" Not bothering to wait for a reply she accepted the gift and brought the open bud to her nose, so the soft scent filled her thoughts. Dew drops still hung from the petals, like it just had been cut off in a garden. It reminded her awfully much of sunlight and outside air. She suppressed a sigh. How much she would love to breathe in the cold, brisk November air…

Erik smiled and walked back to his place. "Some simple conjuring, nothing more, Christine. I noticed your other flower was withering away."

Christine remembered with sorrow the fragile petals which had crumbled under her touch as she had removed her bodice. "Yes, I'm afraid so."

Erik's long, elegant hands had folded his newspaper. "I will bring you some breakfast, if you like. You're up so early, I'm afraid I haven't had any time to put it ready."

"How late is it then?"

"A quarter past seven."

"Really?" For a moment she was baffled. She had awoken very early then, seeing she had token another hot bad and had thought about her clothes quite some time before she had picked out the soft blue, modest dress she was wearing now.

"Really." Her surprise seemed to amuse him. "Would you like some breakfast?"

For a moment her awkwardness that always came up when he stared at her when she ate and her stomach battered with each other. She would love to set her teeth in a warm croissant and to taste some orange juice, but she didn't want to be the object of his unhidden obsession again. "Yes, that would be nice," she said reluctantly.

He swiftly moved to a door and she stood up to follow him. He turned around and shook his head. "Stay here, Christine."

"But I want to help you," she protested.

"I don't want you to dirty your hands, my dear." He motioned her to sit down again and she did, suddenly detecting the aura of authority that hung around him again.

Having nothing to do while he was away, she played bored with the flower in her hands. She had difficulty keeping her head empty. It didn't seem her wise to think about Erik if he was around in person: she had noticed that at those times her common sense wasn't trustworthy anymore. Her feet tapped the tune of a song on the soft, thick rug with night blue and golden spirals.

"I almost forgot to ask you, my dear: how did you spend your afternoon yesterday?"

She whirled around. Erik was standing behind her, holding a tray with a plate with flower motive and a croissant, a cup with hot chocolate and a glass with orange juice. She still wondered how he could possibly know it was what she ate every morning. Chills suddenly ran down her spine. He couldn't possibly have been spying on her, then even, have been around her every minute of every day?

"Is something amiss, my dear?" His golden eyes questioned her frozen face.

_Stop thinking!_ "No, I'm sorry, Erik," she quickly smiled, while she chastised herself in thoughts. "I was daydreaming… You always give me a fright when you appear so right behind me."

He seemed satisfied with the explanation. "Eat a bit, Christine."

She nibbled on the croissant, at a sudden not very hungry anymore. He sat at the other end of the table, arms folded, and was staring with utter admiration again. "What did you ask me, Erik?" she asked, to divert his attention. The staring not only frightened her, it irritated her too. She felt like an animal in a zoo, having no other company than thousands of gaping visitors.

"I was curious how you spent your afternoon yesterday."

"I read a bit in _The Hunchback of the Notre-Dame_," she answered.

"Did you enjoy it?"

"Yes, greatly! It's very beautiful," she said enthusiastic. "I can actually see it all happen!"

His eyes glimmered amused by her excitement. "And who's your favourite character?"

"Quasimodo," she answered promptly.

"Is it? Mine Esmeralda," he replied good-humouredly. "Or maybe even Frollo."

She pulled a face. "Bah, no, Erik! He's so mean."

His eyes glittered. "It all depends on your point of view, I assume."

"Well, I don't like him," she resumed. "He's really, really bad." She took a sip of her hot chocolate and enjoyed the warmth hovering through her body. With mamma Valerius, there had only been surrogate hot chocolate, the real too expensive for a girl which didn't earn a lot, had to take care of a bedridden, older lady and had to pay the fee of a servant-girl. She had never complained about it, but had secretly missed those mornings when she would wake up next to her father in the stable and a farmer who had been moved by their music offered them breakfast and the hot chocolate he had just made… But none of it had been as good as the one Erik prepared; the warm, rich, smooth liquid that slid down her throat as velvet.

She put her cup down and reached for her knife, but dropped it immediately again. "Oh! How was it yesterday? Are… are many people hurt? There aren't any deaths, are there?" Her eyes begged him to say there was no need to worry; that nobody was hurt, that there was only some material damage.

"I'm afraid there are, Christine." His face had become strangely inscrutable. "The chandelier killed a woman, and wounded maybe even for life her husband and brother, who sat beside her."

"Oh, that's awful." She bit on her lip. "I wish… it hadn't happened." She felt stupid for saying it. What kind of remark was that?

"That's very kind of you, my dear."

"Mmm," she murmured, not knowing what to say to make things alright again, and hating the part of her that wanted to simply forget what just had been said, the selfish part that whispered to think no longer of it just because it made her feel bad.

"Finish your breakfast, Christine," he gently chided her. She reluctantly started on her croissant again, no longer enjoying the crispy paste or the melted butter.

۞

"What do you want to do, my dearest?"

Christine opened her soft pink lips and held them so for a moment, while her mind raced through ideas and plans, before sighing. "I don't know exactly, Erik."

She stood before him, hands clasped together, her large eyes at his deformed face. They were in the dining room, the shining polished table behind Erik's thin frame. His flaming eyes were softly burning, like a candle that, after the first hesitating flickering, had found its steady way between wavering and glowing.

"Do you want me to read something to you?" His thin lips curled in a smile. "I know great stories, my love. Great stories. Indian and Persian and Chinese ones. Have you ever heard of Alf Layla wa-Layla?"

Christine blinked. "Pardon me?"

"It is the name of a famous book. I believe you will have heard about it, no? The Book of One Thousand and One Nights?" His glimmering eyes seemed to absorb her, trying to see every little difference in her features, attempting to read her expression.

"Oh, yes! Yes, I have, though I don't know what it is about. It's Persian, isn't it?"

He chuckled, a warm deep sound resonating in his throat. "That is what the Persians would like everyone to believe, oui. But originally it's Indian. Shall I tell you what it is about?"

She studied him for a moment. His golden eyes were glimmering. He enjoyed it when she hung on his lips, when he was able to fascinate her through something else than music.

She smiled and walked to the chair she usually sat on. "Why don't you?" she teased back. Two could play that game.

He took his own chair and placed it before her. "There was a good and righteous king, called Shahryar, and he was married to the most beautiful woman in the kingdom. His love for her went deeper than the sea, but she deceived him with one of her many lovers and plotted on killing him." She stared in awe up to him. His smooth voice seemed like honey to her ears, softly caressing them with the lightest of touches, pouring his seductive sounds in her mind. "He found out and had them executed, but his wounded heart was turned into stone. He swore that every woman was the same and ordered his vizier to bring him every evening a new woman. He then slept with her –" Christine's cheeks flushed to a bright pink, but she was unable to tear her gaze away from his amber orbs or to stop herself from listening to Erik's sweet, capturing voice. "And had her executed every morning at dawn. His vizier had to bring him every day a new girl, against his will. After a while, only two girls were left in the entire city: the two daughters of the vizier. To help her father, the oldest girl offers herself voluntarily to the king."

"What was her name?" Christine asked breathless. He had only spoken a couple of sentences and she was already completely lost in the story! She could feel the poor king's pain, the crowd's horror, the vizier's disgust, the oldest girl's despair…

"Scheherazade."

An incredulous smile lit up her little face. "Repeat that." The name that had just come out his mouth seemed impossible, incoherent.

"Scheherazade."

Her mouth opened in astonishment when he let the to her ears foreign sounds roll over his tongue without a moment's hesitation. She tried it herself, but failed miserably.

"You have to put your tongue against your palate," Erik instructed, delighted by her efforts and beaming smile. "And stress the first a. Scheherazade."

"Schehez-" she broke off and giggling shook her head.

"Again," Erik commanded, also smiling. "And now slower. Sche-her-a-zade."

"Sche-she –" She broke off, smiling. She didn't really make an effort anymore to say the name correctly, it was too much fun to just sit there and try, and to look at the delight Erik had at her attempts.

"Again!"

"Sche-her-a-zade," she repeated. Her mouth fell open when she realised she had spoken the sounds right. Her amazed expression changed into a laugh that showed all her little white teeth. She placed her small hands alongside her face and then jumped on her feet. "I did it, I did it!"

Erik's laughter boomed through the room as she whirled around. "I actually said it!" She sang the name on an improvised tune. "Sche-he-ra-zade, Sche-her-e-zade," her tongue stumbled and fumbled again, but she quickly recovered herself and went on. "Sche-her-a-zade!" She turned to him again, her arms spread out, the smile lightening her face.

Erik was leaning forward, gazing at her, his eyes glowing with his maddening, desperate hope. Christine slowly lowered her arms and walked back. She could hear his shuddering breath as she enveloped his long, yellowish hand with both hers. Ignoring the nausea settling in her stomach as she felt the strange texture of his flesh against hers, she squeezed and smiled at him.

His eyes burned her features softly as he gave a small pinch back.


End file.
